Double-Edged Sword of Mother's Encouragement
by ETNRL4L
Summary: '"You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Peeta. ..."She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' She is," says Peeta.' This is for someone who's always wanted to read what happened in that Justice Building.


**A/N: This is for Wollaston and her lovely husband on Tumblr. I just found them a couple of days ago as I was browsing and found it too endearing that they share a mutual love of this fandom in their marriage. Anyway, she's always wanted to be a fly on the wall during this particular scene in the book, which we was never expanded upon. I was intrigued… strange things happen when my interest is piqued. XD**

**For anyone who's read my other work... yeah, I know I need to stop it with the mommy issues. It's probably not healthy. XD**

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins.**

**Enjoy!**

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It'b been so hot in the square that afternoon.

His shirt felt stiff from the perspiration that had dried on it earlier, itchy. His trousers felt as if they were restricting his range of motion for some reason and his shoes – which were admittedly a size too big, an unfortunate causatum of their being hand-me-downs from Rye – were grounding irritatingly against the sides of his feet whenever he shifted his weight. Even through the thin material of his socks, he could already feel sores forming.

Admittedly, these were laughably paltry peeves for him to be focusing on as he stood staring out the single window in that lavishly appointed room within the Justice Building. Especially, considering the abominable reason he was present in that room at all. However, he'd quickly learned that centering on the enormity of his predicament did little to bar the moisture that had been pooling steadily behind his eyes from the moment the doors to the edifice he presently inhabited closed behind him and Katniss from spilling forth.

His uncomfortable shoes, his sweaty, sticky, itchy shirt, watching the pretty blue bird on the tree that faced the window he stared out of, pace down a branch in search of lord-knew-what – fixating on _anything_ was better than existing in that room in those few moments. He was desperately trying to keep some semblance of composure. They'd be in that room with him any moment. They deserved some modicum of succor from him.

He was abandoning them.

Of course, that plan all but flew out that open window the moment he heard the door fly open and – before he could turn to send a half-hearted welcome toward the visitor – found two muscled arms wrapped around his chest so tightly, breathing became a new challenge. It wasn't a stretch to guess who it was that planted a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of his head while soaking the curls there with tears. Only one of them was tall enough for the feat. None of the Mellarks were known for their stature.

He stopped fighting the inevitable and sunk back into the steadiness of his eldest brother's solid torso. Twin salty trails had just trickled down his cheeks from his now tightly shut eyes when he felt the second set of arms wind around his middle, registered the choked sobs coming from the warm face nestled into the hollow of his neck.

"I hate you, you know that?" Rye didn't even bother trying to keep his voice from cracking with strain as he continued to soak his baby brother's shirt through with his whimpers. "You saw this coming, didn't you, you bastard. That's why you made me swear. You made me promise never to take your place if this crap happened."

Peeta suddenly felt his jaw in the older boy's grasp, the gesture so abrupt and unexpected, his eyes flew open to lock with the nearly matching pair of his second oldest sibling. The agony apparent in those azure depths made his breath come in ragged intervals.

"And now look how well that panned out for you, Peeta," Rye continued with a venomous edge of spite to his voice. Nearly all traces of compassion were gone from his demeanor, replaced by bitterness and pain as he finished miserably, "Look who they're sending you in there with, man. Are you even going to try at all, or have you already decided to die for her?"

The younger boy could feel the instant, minute twitch of one of his brows in response to his brother's query and immediately loathed himself for it, for the tiny tell. Rye noticed it the moment it happened, as well. Of course, he noticed. He was his big brother, the enforcer. Nothing escaped him.

With another helpless sob, the hand that had been at Peeta's jaw wound round to the back of his head and he found himself trapped in a suffocating bear hug. Flax refused to relent his death grip on his upper torso, however. So, he was essentially, entombed between his crying older siblings. He'd never felt warmer or safer. He endeavored to commit that feeling to the deepest recesses of his memory. He doubted he'd be beneficiary to it ever again.

The rather euphoric moment was further augmented when a third set of muscular arms came up to wrap around the necks of all three youths and Peeta felt his father press a soft kiss to his temple. "Don't count yourself out before you're even there, son." The sixteen-year-old maneuvered as best he could in his brothers' grasps to focus his red-rimmed eyes on the baker. The man's tacit, deep baritone, too, he tried to commit to recollection. His father's words had grown fewer and fewer with each passing year. He'd always cherished them. On _that_ day, they were worth more than gold.

"Yes, she's special. We all saw just how much today, I think. But, you're nowhere less of a rarity amongst men, Peeta. If she deserves to come home, you do, too. Please, try to come back. If you want to protect her, do what your heart tells you. But, don't sell yourself short. You're worth just as much as she is." Then, the older man brought his forehead down to brush against his youngest son's, silent tears of loss springing to his own hardship-lined eyes.

There was a thick, pregnant silence, broken only by the occasional sniff or sob for a long moment until an impatient snort resounded in the room. The sound was so gauche and unbecoming to the otherwise solemn atmosphere that all eyes instantly focused on its source with varying degrees of consternation- not that the perpetrator was in any way affected by the glares.

The Mellark matriarch swept a hand expansively in a dismissive gesture with a roll of her eyes. She kept her tone neutral, conversational. "Well, you've all been bawling since you got in here. Can you blame me for getting sick of it already? You all do realize there are cameras waiting to capture the aftereffects of this the moment he walks out of here, right? I mean, look at him. He looks pathetic. He's not a child. He's not built like one and he looks mortified. Congratulations, you've all managed to make him an even larger target for the superior Tributes that will inevitably be in the arena this year. As for the Everdeen girl..."

She now took a moment to narrow her eyes at her husband briefly before setting them squarely back on her youngest son as she continued, "I won't even pretend to care why you're so personally invested in protecting her. It doesn't really matter because the point is moot. Compared to her, you're going in there a lamb for the slaughter. Your father's right, boy. That Everdeen girl's special. She's a survivor, that one. She is everything I've tried and failed to rear you to be. It's such a pity, really. But, at least District Twelve will finally have another victor, right? In my opinion, if you're planning to sacrifice yourself to make her journey back here easier, that's a noble cause, indeed. You work with that."

On that note, she made her way to the door, pausing only shortly to toss over her shoulder icily, "Oh and please don't step off the plate before the sixty seconds are up. At least, have the decency not to make all of us look stupid. I couldn't bear having to live down the mortification, our neighbors' judging stares for raising the retard that was blown to smithereens before the Games even started. Die with some dignity."

Audible, scandalized gasps accompanied the baker's wife when she nonchalantly walked out of that room in the Justice Building, leaving behind her entire slack-jawed, gaping family…

…and one very emotionally bereft if resolved sixteen-year-old.

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**A/N: I apologize if this is not what the requester expected, but my mind goes to strange places when I get requests. *giggles* If you would like something different - like say, some insight into the psyche of Mrs. Mellark *shudders* while she witnessed this scene unfold or something - please leave a comment and I will add a second chapter to accommodate your request.  
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